


Lens Flare

by gemjam



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark wants to capture something he can't put into words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lens Flare

**Author's Note:**

> Big huge thanks to zeraparker for looking this over and offering reassurance

Mark slouches down on the sofa, placing another piece of chocolate into his mouth as he watches Mitch pull his sweatshirt over his head. The muscles in his arms flex, biceps much more developed than the last time Mark saw him. He's obviously been training hard and Mark's sorry he missed it. He loves that look on Mitch's face, the determination shining through in his eyes as he wills himself to push just a little bit harder. Mark knows he was always the one that pushed Mitch to that point, sweaty, panting, legs threatening to buckle, and he's proud. They're both moving on to different stages in their lives though and Mark's not sure how much longer he'll be able to take credit.

"It's roasting in here," Mitch says, casting a glance towards the burning fire.

"Mmm," Mark agrees distractedly. Mitch's T-shirt is tight and Mark wonders if he's doing it on purpose. "Tasmania did you good, mate."

Mitch grins at him, face suddenly flushed with enthusiasm. "It was amazing. Best thing I ever did."

Mark nods. "Show me."

"The photos?" Mitch asks, taking his phone from his pocket as he steps closer. "I think I've sent you most of these."

"No," Mark dismisses. "Show me your body."

Mitch stops mid-step, an amused smile spreading over his face. "Well, get straight to the point, why not." He hesitates, waiting for a joke, but Mark just pops another piece of chocolate into his mouth, watching him expectantly. Mitch shifts on his feet, looking unsure. "You want me strip?"

Mark shrugs. "I want to see. You look good. Strong."

Mitch slides his phone back into his pocket and then pulls his T-shirt over his head, tossing it down onto a nearby chair. He does a couple of ridiculous poses but Mark ignores him, concentrating on the flesh in front of him. He looks so much older, so undeniably like a man. It's a stupid thought to have, Mark knows it is, but Mitch has kind of always been _the kid_ in his head. This feels like a coming of age and it takes Mark's breath away.

"Now what?" Mitch asks. "Want me to prove how hard I've been working out? Show you my stamina?" His voice is playful, so at odds with where Mark's mind is. He tears his eyes away from Mitch's body to meet his eyes.

"Can I take some pictures?"

Mitch frowns, looking lost. "What?"

"I want to take some photographs," Mark says, eyes drifting back down to that gorgeous tanned flesh, the muscles that lie beneath.

Mitch laughs. "Are you the dirty old photographer and I'm the innocent, trusting model?"

Mark shakes his head, meeting Mitch's eyes again, trying to show how sincere he is. "I mean it. I want to photograph you. Naked. You look gorgeous."

Mitch looks self-conscious all of a sudden but his lips part and his eyes go kind of glassy as he stares at Mark. There's a flush high up on his cheekbones. "Yeah?"

Mark's eyes scan downwards again. "Yeah." He swallows, sitting up. "I won't get your face in. It'll be safe. And I'll delete them all anyways when we're done."

"That'd be a waste," Mitch says.

Mark gives him a warning look. "Being careless with stuff like this could ruin you later."

"If I make it to F1?" Mitch asks.

" _When_ ," Mark says determinately.

Mitch smiles at him and Mark can see so much in that smile; pride, affection, tenacity, the thrill of doing something dangerous. He nods his head, reaching for the button of his jeans. "Get the camera."

Mark has an expensive camera that his assistant had bought for photo opportunities but it's rarely been used, especially since camera phones became so hi-tech, and as a result it's lay mostly dormant in the study. Mark wants something special now though, something fit for purpose, because he feels like he's making art.

He goes to fetch it while Mitch strips himself, returning to find Mitch naked and sprawled on the sofa.

"How do you want me?" he asks seductively.

Mark raises the camera up, looking through the viewfinder. He takes in the image of Mitch's hard body sinking into the soft cushions and shakes his head, lowering the camera again. "This isn't right. Not there."

Mitch frowns, sitting up slightly. "What?"

"Need more definition against your body, you're getting swamped," Mark says, looking around the room.

"Are you serious?" Mitch asks, sounding amused. "Isn't this just foreplay? You said you're deleting the pictures anyway."

"That's not the point," Mark tells him. "I want to appreciate them. I want to appreciate you." His eyes land on the rug by the fireplace and it's a bit of a cliché but Mark wants his body laid out there, the light dancing on his flesh, all that warmth bringing out his gorgeous tan. "There," he says. "Lie there. On your stomach to start with."

"Alright," Mitch agrees, smiling slightly as he crosses the room, following Mark's instructions. Mark gets down on one knee, poising himself with the camera. Mitch bends one leg up, pointed toe. "Like this?" he asks coquettishly, sucking a finger into his mouth as he looks at Mark over his shoulder.

"Don't do that," Mark says. "You're ruining it. I want it natural. Real. Just relax."

Mitch lowers his leg, dropping his hand back down to the floor. He sighs, looking almost bored. Mark lifts the camera back up to his face, framing Mitch's body in the viewfinder, the sweep of his spine leading to the curve of his arse. He snaps a photo. It's breathtaking. Mitch adjusts himself, the muscles in his shoulders shifting under the skin, and Mark takes another photo, trying to capture the combination of strength and beauty.

Mitch looks back at him again, almost cautious. Mark snaps a few more photos, trying different angles, different focuses. He can feel Mitch's eyes on him but his vision is only through the viewfinder, cutting out Mitch's face. He moves closer, takes a photograph of the small of Mitch's back, the way it curves sharply upwards as it becomes his arse. He checks out the shot on the small screen of the camera, how it's not quite obscene, only the promise of Mitch's buttocks rather than showing them explicitly, and yet it's quite possibly the most erotic thing Mark's ever seen. He looks up, meeting Mitch's eyes, licking his lips as he feels his dick throb in the confines of his jeans.

Mitch's lips curve up into a smile that looks slightly forced. "Enjoying yourself?"

Mark's self-control wavers because he wants to dive forward, wants to consume Mitch, wants to ruin him. He knows Mitch wants it too, can see that dark look in his eye that's begging Mark, tempting him, and Mark wonders if he even has any control over it.

He wants to say something, wants to explain to Mitch what he's seeing, but Mark is shit with words and neither of them is sentimental and maybe Mark's expression says to Mitch everything that's caught in his throat, drying out his tongue and making him painful with need.

He lifts the camera up again, moves positions, takes a few more shots. Mitch bows his head down and Mark eats up the submissive pose with the lens, taking a close up of the bumps of his spine, the slump of his shoulders. There's no sounds in the room except the shutter of the camera, the crackle of the fire and their own breaths, making the intimacy almost suffocating, what they're sharing so totally inescapable.

Mark scans the camera down Mitch's body, watching it all through the viewfinder, avoiding the more shameless shots he could be taking and instead trying to be artful, trying to capture what he sees whenever he looks at Mitch, not only stripped of his clothing but of his inhibitions too, so trusting of Mark, even with the camera in his hands.

He focuses on Mitch's strong legs, snapping some shots that show the definition of the muscle, the hard work that's gone into it. Mark knows the hours, the sweat, the toil that's gone into each hard line, each firm bulge, and he tries to make his photographs an appreciation of that fact.

"You've been out on the bike a lot," he says.

"Yeah," Mitch agrees, his voice slightly distant. "Not the same without you."

Mark smiles slightly. "We'll go out this week," he promises. As he snaps another shot, across Mitch's thighs, he wonders if he'll even be able to keep up. He's still training, still going out on the bike, taking the dogs for a run, but he's not pushing himself nearly as hard as he used to, as he _had_ to. He's not going to miss the punishing fitness levels that F1 forced on him, but he realises now that maybe he'll have to give up more than that. Mitch is on his way up while Mark is on his way down; maybe they're paths have merged all they can and now they can't do anything but drift slowly apart in the same way they drew irresistibly together like magnets.

Mark reaches out, slides a hand over Mitch's thigh. It twitches under his touch, tensing for half a second before he melts into it, making a tiny noise. Mark curls in fingers around, edging towards the inside of Mitch's thigh, taking a photograph of his hand against Mitch's tanned skin, the hint of sexuality in the shot making Mark bite down on his lip, trying to ignore his hard on that pulses insistently.

"Turn over," he says, sliding his hand away.

It's immediately obvious he's not the only one worked up as Mitch rolls over onto his back. He props himself up on his elbows, his cock curving upwards, a deep pink against his flat abdomen. For a few moments Mark can't tear his eyes away. A tiny noise escapes his throat and then he licks over his dry lips, forcing himself to take in the rest of the sight in front of him.

He snaps a photo of Mitch's collarbone, his bicep, the dip below his ribs, his navel, the definition of his hip. He takes in all the details, the places he wants to run his fingers over, the places he wants to kiss and suck and nibble while Mitch moans and writhes beneath him. He takes a photograph of the long fingers he wants to suck, the wrist he wants to hold down, the thighs he wants to spread, the toes he wants to make curl as Mitch cries out, coming all over himself while Mark has his cock buried inside him.

Mark takes a shaky breath, lowering the camera and taking in the whole picture laid out before him. He shifts his position again, tries to find an angle that works for some full body shots, but now that Mitch is facing him it's more difficult to frame his face out. Mark considers letting the rule go, too caught up now in what he's doing, wanting to simply indulge. He'll delete the photos, every one of them, he's certain of that, but he knows they still can't take that risk. What if they miss one? What there's a way they can be recovered?

He takes a snap from the curve of his throat to his slightly canted hips, immediately pulling back to appreciate the picture on the screen. The contrast of his cock against the rest of his skin, the hint of movement and desperation the angle of his body gives, it makes Mark groan. He looks up, meeting Mitch's eyes, seeing nothing but want and pleading there. Mark takes another shot and then another, using the camera in an attempt to distance himself so that he can keep this going a while longer but it's not a barrier, it's a sledgehammer smashing through the fantasies and making everything between them so stark and real.

Mark can't resist, he takes a shot with Mitch's mouth in, his lips parted and slightly damp, his head tipped back, his jaw slack. He stares at it and he wonders if it's too much, if people would be able to tell from this who it was. To Mark, every photo is glaringly obvious; he's catalogued every inch of Mitch a long time ago.

"Shall I..." Mitch begins haltingly. Mark looks up, almost shocked by the sound of Mitch's voice. Mitch blinks at him. "Do you want me to..." He lifts a hand, lands it on his abdomen, fingers twitching slightly. The question is obvious and Mark imagines him fisting his own cock, precome leaking from the tip, the photo a blur of motion. His own dick throbs harshly in response.

Mark lifts the camera, takes a photograph of Mitch's hand against his stomach, but he doesn't answer. He has no answer. Yes he wants to see that, definitely can't turn it down, but that's not really what they're doing here; turning this so blatantly pornographic would strip away the honesty of it, turn it into an act rather than the shared experience it is now. It would cheapen it.

Mark takes more photographs though, framing Mitch's fingers in different ways, capturing them alongside his bellybutton, his cock, his nipples, before Mitch pulls it away, dropping it back down on the floor. He closes his eyes, turns his face away, and Mark watches for a moment, takes in the quality of his body, how each muscle seems so tightly wound up with need.

Without Mitch looking at him he finds an angle where he can take a full body shot including the tilt of his head where his face can't be identified. He stares at it and he still wonders if it's too much. It's the last shot that he intends to take though so it's the first that will be deleted. It seems like a shame because to Mark it's a true work of art, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He knows it has nothing to do with his composition though; it's completely down to the subject.

Mitch turns towards him and Mark slowly lowers the camera down to the floor, surrendering it. Mitch's chest moves up and down with each laboured breath, a sheen of sweat over him that Mark's sure has nothing to do with the fire. He can feel his own skin prickling, his T-shirt sticking to him, his hands damp.

"Please say you're done," Mitch rasps out.

Mark nods and then he lets go, his body uncoiling from its self-imposed repression like a spring as he collides with Mitch, the two of them joining together in a ferocious kiss. Mitch's hands fist into the back of Mark's T-shirt as Mark lets his fingertips finally explore the expanse of skin he's been coveting all evening, stroking and fondling and groping until it's not enough and he pulls his mouth away from Mitch's, needing to taste it all as well.

He licks over Mitch's jaw, sucks on his throat, groans as he finds his pulse point and latches on, feeling the blood pumping beneath his tongue. Mitch gropes his T-shirt upwards and Mark allows himself to be pushed back just long enough to help Mitch get it off before he's pressing his body desperately back against Mitch's.

There's little finesse in what Mark does as he moves down Mitch's body, sucking a nipple into his mouth, biting down on his side, dipping his tongue into his navel. He needs everything all at once but he doesn't have the patience to wait. Revelling is something that will come later, in the morning, when they wake up naked and wrapped around each other and Mark can unwind Mitch's sleepy form and wake him up from head to toe, do all those things he's been missing while Mitch was on the other side of the world. He groans at the thought, lips vibrating against Mitch's stomach while Mitch tips his hips insistently upwards, moaning incoherently, hands gripping Mark's shoulders.

Mark is overwhelmed by the scent of Mitch, that strong, biting arousal that seems to cut right through him, makes him feel like he's going to come in his own pants. Mark is usually the one in control, the one who can wait and hold out and make Mitch beg, the call of his own hormones so much duller than the ones that surge through Mitch's body, subdued by age and experience. Right now he feels like he might actually drown in his own urgency.

He mouths over Mitch's cock, sucking on the side of the shaft, feeling the precome coat his lips. He flicks his tongue out to taste it, painting Mitch's dick with saliva, licking from tip to root and back again. Mitch moans, a high, strained sound, his hips bucking upwards as Mark grabs hold of them, tries to push them back down to the rug.

"Please," Mitch keens. "Come on. Please."

Mark opens his mouth, sucks him inside, nothing precious about the movement as he slides his lips right down to the base, burying himself in Mitch's coarse pubic hair. Mitch cries out, his hips straining under Mark's hold and Mark grips them tighter, his hands slipping slightly on the sweat coating both of their bodies. He moves his head back, setting up a rhythm that's wet and sloppy and totally self-indulgent. He loves the feel of Mitch's dick against his tongue, the way it weighs him down, so hot and heavy. He loves the trails of precome that coat his tastebuds as he lets the head drag over his tongue, loves the stretch in his cheeks, loves the way Mitch's cock nudges the back of his throat when he takes him all the way in, something that always makes Mark feel submissive and powerful in equal measures.

"Mark," Mitch says desperately, his hand in Mark's hair tightening and tugging. "Gonna come."

Mark hums his agreement, sucking a little harder in encouragement, his own hips pushing down onto the floor to get some friction against his dick.

"No," Mitch says, shaking his head that's tipped back, throat bared. "Need you to fuck me."

Mark doesn't let up, flicking his tongue and hollowing his cheeks before taking Mitch all the way and swallowing around him. Mitch's whole body tenses as he lets out a choked moan, eyes squeezed shut as he floods Mark's throat, his hips stuttering and trying instinctively to push him deeper. Mark keeps a firm hold on them, swallowing and swallowing as he feels Mitch's orgasm take over his own body.

As Mitch still and melts beneath him Mark pulls his mouth unceremoniously away to a disgruntled sound from Mitch, getting to his knees between Mitch's thighs and attacking the front of his own jeans. Mitch watches through hazy eyes, his mouth hanging open as he takes in uneven breaths, and as Mark finally manages to free his painfully hard cock, Mitch groans at the sight of it. Mark wraps his hand firmly around it, jerking himself off.

"Later," Mitch says, reaching out a hand but it falls short. "Fuck me later. Okay?"

Mark nods distractedly, unable to make deals or promises, only able to focus on the immediacy of his own orgasm. Besides, Mitch needn't worry, Mark's fairly sure he couldn't get up the coordination to fuck him right now if his life depended on it. He rises upwards slightly on his knees, pulling insistently on his cock, eyes fixed on the hungry expression on Mitch's face, despite how sated he is.

"Gonna come in my mouth?" Mitch asks.

Mark shakes his head, leaning over Mitch's body and placing one hand flat on the floor, locking his arm to hold himself up. He can smell Mitch, can practically taste him the pheromones are so strong in the heated air from the fire, clogging up the room with the obscene scent of sex. Mark grunts, squeezing himself tighter, moving his eyes from Mitch's open, desire filled expression and down to the body that has been the catalyst for this whole evening, using it as inspiration to tip himself over the edge.

He watches as his come paints the tensed muscles of Mitch's abdomen, the rise and fall of Mitch's chest with each breath making him seem so alive, so ripe for the picking. Mark's arm trembles under his own weight but he fights against it, can't bear the thought of sinking down onto Mitch and ruining the display he's just created. He doesn't want to smear the ribbons of come that tell him, for this moment at least, all that youth and beauty belongs to him.

Unable to take it anymore Mark tips himself backwards onto his knees, feeling dizzy, sweat sliding down his back. His body sags, his heart thundering in his chest as he tries to just breathe, the air never seeming to reach the bottom of his lungs. He stares down at Mitch, jaw slack and eyes somewhat hazy, and he looks debauched, yes, stained by Mark, but there's nothing degrading about it. If anything he looks empowered. Mark feels humble before him.

Mitch reaches out, takes hold of the camera, offers it up to Mark. Mark shakes his head.

"That would be stupid," he says.

Mitch holds it out more insistently. "I want to see what you see."

Mark looks back down at his handiwork, overwhelmed by the task of trying to find words to explain this. He doesn't think a photograph would sum it up any better though. Some things just defy explanation; hopes, dreams, love. He shakes his head again.

"It's not safe."

There's a subtle flicker of annoyance and then Mitch turns the camera around, taking the photo himself. Mark gets breathless just thinking about what it must look like. Mitch considers it on the small screen for a moment and then puts the camera aside, looking up at Mark with a silent question in his eyes.

Mark lies down by his side, lifting a hand and running his fingertips up and down Mitch's flank until a little shiver runs through him. He stills them then, resting just short of the first line of come, wanting so desperately to drag his fingers through the mess but not wanting to ruin the perfection. Mitch lifts his own hand, taking hold of Mark's wrist and directing his fingers in a swirling pattern through every splash of come that landed on him. Mark makes a small noise in his throat at the feel of the slickness against Mitch's flesh, his cock giving a redundant little throb.

Once every line has been ruined Mitch lifts Mark's hand up to his mouth, sucking his fingers clean. Their eyes lock together, unable to look away as Mitch takes each new digit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and sucking it in. It's painfully intimate, Mark consumed with the urge to just crush Mitch beneath his body, own him, grip so hard that they'll surely both break. When Mitch has finally finished, Mark's hand falling idly onto Mitch's chest, Mark has to blink a few times before he can even remember his own name.

"You can't keep that photo," he says, his voice absolutely wrecked.

Mitch grins at him, rolling onto his side, causing Mark's hand to fall away. "Can I keep you instead then?"

The words are said with such innocent exuberance but they hurt. Mark can't answer, can't tell the truth but can't say a lie either. Instead he kisses Mitch, chaste but meaningful, giving him everything he desires, if only in the present tense.


End file.
